Herculis was a port city on the Tyrrhenian Sea not far from where the manor had been. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. He had taken it back. “You stupid bitch.
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